by Anne Perry
‘She knows better than that.’ Now his voice was filled with emotion. ‘I adore her. In fact I dare not tell her so, because she hates growing older, but I think maturity suits her. She seems more … more earthy, more reachable. I don’t feel as if she’s infallible any more, too confident, too ethereal to need my support, or protection …’ He faltered to a stop, looking as if he had said more than he meant to. He bit his lip and looked away from Vespasia, down at the table. ‘I’m afraid she will resent being helped with anything, she is so sufficient …’
Vespasia reached across and touched his arm very lightly. ‘My dear Jack, one of the advantages of growing older is that we begin to accept that none of us can manage without friends, people to love and people who love us, even now and then a little help and a little criticism, if it is gently given. You may find that even Emily has learned some wisdom.’
He looked at her with a flash of hope.
‘My advice regarding Dudley Kynaston is not to commit yourself just yet,’ she continued. ‘Find some excuse to wait a week or so. Think of some other matters you wish to deal with, some other commitment you must conclude. And ask Emily’s opinion, whether you actually take her advice or not.’
He flashed her a bright, utterly charming smile. ‘I will do. May I have another jam tart? Suddenly I am hungry, and they are delicious.’
‘They are there for you,’ she replied. ‘You may have them all.’
Vespasia had dinner with Victor Narraway. She had hesitated whether to accept his invitation or not. She could see Emily’s situation so clearly, yet she was confused as to her own. She enjoyed Narraway’s company more than that of anyone else she could recall. He had always been easy for her to talk to, to agree or disagree. Yet lately she had felt a peculiar vulnerability in his company, as if somewhere during their friendship she had lost the emotional armour she had kept safely in place for so many years. She found herself caring if he called again, even allowing her imagination to wonder what he thought of her, and if their friendship were as valuable to him as it was to her.
She was older than he, a knowledge which came with a degree of pain. It had never been of the slightest importance before. Now, absurdly, it mattered. He seemed completely unaware of it, but then he was far too well-mannered to allow such an ungallant thing to show. And it was clearly irrelevant. Of course it was. What was she allowing herself to think?
Because she could come up with no graceful way of declining, she accepted and found herself enjoying a late supper at one of her favourite restaurants.
However, they had barely finished their first course and were waiting for the second to arrive when he became very serious.
‘There has been a development in Pitt’s case,’ he said quietly, leaning a little forward across the table so as to be able to keep his voice very low, and yet be certain she could hear him. ‘It seems that the maid, Ryder, who left Dudley Kynaston’s house in the middle of the night, has been seen alive and well since then, proving that it was not her body in the gravel pit.’
She heard the urgency in his voice and did not interrupt. It was irrelevant that she knew this much already from Charlotte.
‘The second body was not hers either,’ he continued. ‘It seems unavoidable now to conclude that they were both placed where they would be discovered, in order to draw Pitt’s attention to the Kynaston house.’ He was watching her closely, judging her reaction.
‘And do you know the purpose for this?’ she asked, her stomach knotting as she feared he was going to ask her the same question. Her loyalties were torn. She was not certain, but she believed that Somerset Carlisle had done this, and then deliberately raised the matter in Parliament when no one seemed to be taking it seriously enough. It had not required her to draw her own conclusion as to why.
Narraway was staring at her intently.
‘Please don’t play games with me, Vespasia,’ he said softly. ‘I am not asking you to betray anyone’s confidence, even if it is no more than trust in a long friendship. I think you know who placed the bodies where they were, and why they did so.’
‘I can guess,’ she admitted. ‘But I have very carefully avoided asking.’ This was horribly difficult. She would not willingly refuse him anything, but she could not betray a trust – for anyone. ‘I … I will not ask him, Victor. I think he would tell me the truth, and then I would have to lie to you …’
He smiled, as if her answer had genuinely amused him, but there was also a look of pain in his eyes. She had hurt him, and the knowledge of it twisted inside her with a pain she could scarcely believe.
‘Vespasia …’ He reached across the white tablecloth and put his hand over hers, very gently, but with too much strength for her to pull away. ‘Did you really believe I was going to ask you? Please, give me credit for more sensitivity, and for caring for you more than that!’
She looked at him, and was furious with herself for the tightness in her throat, which made speech impossible. She would embarrass both of them.
‘I do not know who it was,’ he continued. ‘But I am certain in my own mind. And such a man would not do so macabre a thing unless he had a profound reason for it. My conclusion is that he did it to force Pitt to investigate Kynaston, because he believes that Kynaston is committing treason against his country. What I do not know is to whom, or why. I do not think it likely to be anything so grubby as mere money. There is something far deeper, far more precious to him than that. Do you agree?’
She felt a tear slide down her cheek, and an overwhelming wave of relief.
‘Yes, I agree,’ she answered. ‘It is very terrible to betray your country. I can hardly imagine anything worse, except perhaps betraying yourself.’
The waiter arrived with the next course. They were silent until he was gone.
‘Then we have something of a test before we decide what it is that Dudley Kynaston cares about even more than his country,’ Narraway said. ‘But perhaps not this evening. Thank you for listening. I very much wished to share my thoughts with you. You always make things seem clearer. Would you like some wine?’
Silently she held out her glass. ‘A debt that honour demands he must pay,’ she said quietly.
‘What debt of honour could he owe greater than that to his country?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. We must find out.’
Chapter Sixteen
STOKER DREW in the help of two colleagues to help him rule out several of the places where Kitty Ryder might have been. But he was beginning to feel a flicker of desperation at how few possibilities there were left. Who was she so afraid of that she had run from Shooters Hill at night, and without taking any of her belongings? What had she seen or heard in the Kynaston house?
He had asked so many questions about her, heard so many bits of stories, that he felt as if he knew her. He knew the songs she liked, the jokes that made her laugh, that she loved roasted chestnuts, green apples, flaky pastry, although she wouldn’t eat much because she did not want to lose her figure. She liked walking in the rain in the summer but hated it in the winter. She wanted to learn about the stars, and one day, if she ever had a house of her own, she would have a dog. He could imagine liking that too. It reminded him of the dreams he had once had about Mary. It seemed like ages ago, and yet the emotion returned with a sharpness that took him aback. He realised how much he missed the friendship of a woman. There was a tenderness to it that was different from that of men.
Kitty loved the sea, not the beach or the cliffs, but the endless horizon and the great ships that sailed as if they had white wings spread in the wind. If he ever met her he would be able to tell her about some of the voyages he had taken, and the places he’d seen. She loved to watch the sea birds flying at sunset with the light on their wings, and dream about how it would feel. He had never been able to tell Mary, because she hated the sea. To her it meant loneliness, separation, an exclusion of all that she cared about. The sea’s endless horizons were full of dreams, and Mary was practical.<
br />
Where had Kitty gone to? Was she still alive, or had someone else already found her and …?
He refused to follow that thought.
Where could she go to hide, and yet still be able to see the things she loved? Water, ships. He needed to stop chasing every clue and use his intelligence. From what he knew of her, if she were frightened and lonely, where would she go for comfort, to gather her courage or make a decision?
Somewhere where she could see water, smell the salt tide, watch sea birds in the fading light. Let her dreams take wing also, just for a while.
Greenwich, down by the Royal Naval College? Except that was too close to Shooters Hill. What about the other side of the river, near the railway station, where she could stand on the shore and look across at where the sailing ships were riding at anchor? Somewhere like that. That is where he would go.
He had no better idea. It was close to dusk as he got off the train and walked down towards the river to watch the light die over the water in limpid silvers and greys. One brilliant bar blazed like a banner across the west, reflecting in the ripples of a barge’s wake, as if each crest were burning with it. He stood in silence, pleasure touching him, warming him with its untarnished beauty. Nothing could mar it; it was safe beyond the reach of human hands.
He waited until the very last of it faded and his skin was cold. Then he turned and saw a woman a few yards away, her face still towards it as if she could see some essence of it left behind. She was tall, maybe only two or three inches shorter than he, and what he could see of her face in the fast gathering dusk had a beauty that held him from speech. He simply stared at her. She seemed as if she belonged here, in the evening and the wide, darkening sky where the only colour left was an echo of the smouldering sun now slid below the west.
Then she became aware of him and her eyes widened in fear.
‘Don’t be frightened!’ he said quickly, taking a step towards her. Then he realised that only made it worse and he stopped. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. I’m only watching the …’ He nearly said ‘sunset’ but it was not the colour that held him, it was the quality of the light, the softness, the gentleness of the shadows. Did that sound ridiculous for a man to say?
She was staring at him. What had he to lose? She was a stranger he would never see again. ‘… the way the light changes,’ he finished. ‘The darkness comes so softly …’
‘Most people don’t see that,’ she said with surprise. ‘They think it’s all a kind of … dying. Are you an artist?’
He wanted to laugh; the idea was so absurd, so far from the truth, but actually it was also beautiful. A wave of longing washed over him. ‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘I wish I were. I’m just a kind of policeman …’
The fear was back in her face. He should not have said that.
‘Not an ordinary policeman,’ he said quickly. ‘Just for spies and anarchists, people who want to change the whole country …’
‘What are you doing down here?’ she asked.
‘Just taking time for myself,’ he said honestly. ‘I’ve been looking for someone for weeks and I haven’t found her yet. I’m not giving up, I’m just … taking a little … peace. Maybe I’ll get a new idea where to look.’
‘Is she a spy?’ she asked curiously.
He laughed very slightly. ‘No! She’s a witness, I think. But I know she’s in danger. I want to protect her.’ He should be more honest. The twilight, the shared perception of the beauty of the sky over the river demanded it. ‘And I want to know what she saw or heard that made her run. She left everything behind her, all her possessions, her friends, everything.’
She stood without moving, not even to change her balance. ‘Then what?’
‘Then we’ll know much better exactly what the treason is, and be able to stop it going on.’
‘What about her? Will you put her in prison, because she didn’t tell you?’
‘Of course not! We’ll make sure she is safe …’
‘How are you going to do that? Won’t they know you’ve found her? Why would anyone believe her, not them?’
He stared at her. In the delicate, grey half-light her face was beautiful, not just pretty but really beautiful. Her hair looked dark, but not black. In the sunlight it could have been any colour, even auburn. And she was frightened, wanting to believe him but not able to.
‘Kitty …’ The moment the name was on his lips he felt ridiculous. He was letting this get to him, send his brain soft!
She froze, like an animal ready to run but knowing it was useless. She was caught by a predator far stronger and far swifter than she was. But she would fight, he could see that in her face too.
He let out a sigh. ‘I’ve been looking for you for weeks! We know Kynaston’s betraying secrets, but we don’t know why! Or how he’s doing it. There’s no point in just catching him, we need the people he’s passing them on to as well.’
She had not said anything – certainly not that she was Kitty Ryder, but he knew it as surely as if she had. It was there in her silence, and her fear. He understood that he should not take a step towards her.
‘My name’s Davey Stoker. I work for Special Branch. You don’t need to run any more. I’ll take you somewhere you’ll be safe …’
‘Prison?’ She shook her head sharply. Now she was shivering. ‘I won’t be safe there! The people after me are bigger than you! You don’t even know who all of them are!’
‘No! Not prison. Why would I put you in prison? You haven’t done anything.’ He knew exactly what he was going to do. ‘I’ll take you on the train, now, to my sister’s house. She’ll look after you. No one else will know, then they can’t tell anyone. You won’t be locked in. You can run, if you want to …’
‘Your sister? She in the police as well?’
He smiled. ‘No. She’s married with four kids. She doesn’t really know anything about Special Branch, except that I work there.’
‘You haven’t got a wife? They’d know to look there?’ she asked.
‘I haven’t got a wife. And I suppose they might. They wouldn’t know about Gwen. And it won’t be for long.’
‘Why would she do that? Take me in?’
‘Because I asked her to,’ he said simply. ‘We’re … close.’
She stood silent for a moment, then she made the decision. ‘I’ll come. But I haven’t got money for a train … not more than a few stops.’
‘I have. How about supper first? I’m starving. Do you like fish and chips?’
‘Yes … but …’
He understood. ‘It’s not on me, it’s on Special Branch.’ It was a lie, but he knew why she needed to believe it. She was probably hungry too.
She nodded and started to walk very slowly back towards the street. He caught up with her quickly and they walked side by side, close, but not touching, keeping step with each other.
Gwen did not hesitate to welcome Kitty. She took one look at Stoker’s face, and then at the fear and consciousness of obligation in the whole manner of the young woman with him, and opened the door wide.
‘Come in,’ she said, looking directly at Kitty. ‘We’ll have a cup of tea, then we’ll sort out a room for you. It’ll need a bit of juggling around, but it’ll work. Don’t stand on the doorstep, Davey! Come on inside!’
The warmth of the house wrapped around him immediately and as he watched Kitty’s face he saw her smile. Gwen took her up the stairs, calling back instructions to Stoker to put the kettle on.
An hour later, extra beds were made up for children to move in with each other, and told strictly not to sit up all night chattering. Gwen and her husband were sitting talking to each other in the kitchen, and Stoker sat with Kitty in the parlour, although it was chilly because the fire had only just been lit. It was a room used on special occasions, and it felt like it.
It was time for explanations.
‘What did you learn that made you leave in the night, without any of your clothes, or even a hairbrush?’ Stoker ask
ed quietly, but with no allowance for evasion in his voice.
Kitty took a deep breath, stared down at her hands locked tightly in her lap, and began.
‘I worked it out that Mr Kynaston had a mistress. Once you think of it, it in’t that hard to see. Just little things, you know?’ She looked up quickly, then down again. ‘The way he explained where he was going, answering questions nobody asked, but not the ones they did, and you only realise it afterwards.’
‘You heard that?’ he interrupted.
‘Some of it,’ she replied. ‘Most gentry forget that servants have ears. They get so used to seeing us around, and mostly not speaking, they don’t reckon we can put anything together and understand. Or maybe they don’t care. If we want to stay in service we aren’t going to tell anyone. And it doesn’t matter what we think of them. I don’t think that’s part of anything …’
He was puzzled. ‘So what did you learn that was so bad?’
‘That his mistress was Mrs Kynaston … not his wife, but Mrs Kynaston as was the widow of his brother, the one whose picture hangs in the study, and he looks the way he does.’
‘Are you sure it wasn’t that he was just taking care of her, because of his brother?’
She gave him the sort of glance Gwen did when he said something completely stupid.
‘If anybody took it on themselves to “take care of” me like that, I’d slap ’is face as hard as I could,’ she retorted. ‘Then I’d kick him as high up as my skirts’d let me.’
‘Oh …’ For a moment he could not think of anything suitable to say. He felt foolishly embarrassed. ‘Did he know you saw, and think you would tell his wife?’
She gave a slight shrug. ‘Don’t think so. I reckon as she pretty well knew for herself. An’ either way, she wouldn’t want to think I’d seen. Sometimes you’ve got to live with things, an’ the only way to bear it hurting you so much is to pretend that no one else knows.’